


Cet Amour

by vogue91



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, F/M, Ficlet Collection, Flash Fic, Fluff, Gen, Introspection, Love, M/M, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-20
Updated: 2018-02-20
Packaged: 2019-03-21 17:27:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13745799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vogue91/pseuds/vogue91
Summary: Love takes down different paths, it embodies different forms, in different places, but its nature always stays the same.





	Cet Amour

_ Cet amour... traqué, blessé, nié, oublié _

_You’re alone, Remus. Nobody can love you tonight, nobody will be able to see the smile behind the growl of the monster._

The werewolf he had kept inside for so long, had become his partner of existence, who went everywhere, relentless, without the slightest intention to let go of the grip over his mind.

Perhaps he was just like the wolf said, perhaps he was only a monster.

Or perhaps it was what he wanted him to believe.

Remus had his revelation the moment he met Dora. With her smiles, her clumsiness, her carelessness... he liked to think her presence would’ve suffocated the animal’s.

And yet he had sadly realized that, the days passing and his love for the metamorphomagus growing deeper, the voice of the wolf became stronger and stronger.

It had ceased being a whisper to become an hallucination, a presence shadowing his steps and his actions, reminding him always that he was there, and that nothing was going to uproot him from the wizard’s body.

It was this becoming stronger of his, directly proportional to the moments Tonks spent in his life, that finally made Remus see clear.

The animal was _jealous_.

Jealous of Dora, jealous of not being the only one anymore to torment the man’s thoughts.

_Surrender. You can’t escape who you are_ the Voice hissed, with that sly and realistic tone that made Remus shiver. He sighed, massaging his temples.

“No, I can’t escape my nature.” he murmured. Then he opened his eyes, an atypical boldness in his eyes. “But I can accept it.” he said, resolute.

He would’ve abandoned the hope of being someone he wasn’t, becoming what he truly was, no matter whether he called it ‘monster’, ‘wolf’ or any similar and deceptive definition.

He would’ve surrendered to his nature, because just like that he could’ve abandoned himself to what fate laid on his path, abandoning to his future.

Abandon himself to Nymphadora’s smiles.

And, when he would’ve been able to do so, the Wolf would’ve kept quiet, letting that existence to belong only to the man, who had been fighting a long time to emerge.

The Voice faded, leaving his thoughts breathe.

 

_ Cet amour... cette chose toujours nouvelle _

She was bloody tired. She was the one who solved problems, the one who set herself up as a schoolteacher to explain what other people didn’t know.

But nobody had ever understood that there were things even she ignored, and that she would’ve liked for someone to educate her.

Hermione knew by heart the texts of History of Magic and Charms, she was capable of brewing any potion and could Transfigure a good number of things.

And yet, she was a complete stranger to the concept of love.

She knew Ron was the one who was supposed to teach her, somehow, but she was aware that he was the first to be hesitant in the matter.

And she felt completely inadequate, unused to the role of the one who was forced to ask.

She had waited a long time for him to finally decide to see her in a different way, going over the good, old Hermione, the friend, the ally.

She didn’t know whether the boy would’ve been able to shake her, to make her understand that he was there, and that if they were both ignorant they would’ve learnt together.

She just knew that to start a relationship one was due to know what he wanted, and she did. She had an insane will to love, in a way all personal and little canonical, but all hers.

She wanted to put herself first, understand what her body wanted and what her mind, what would’ve done her some good and made her happy.

She knew that there were a lot of people in that world, all unique and all damn imperfect, just like Ron and her. And yet, the two of them had contact points in their huge differences and in their flaws, that made them kindred spirits.

If there was something that what little years she had had taught her, was that alone she wouldn’t have gone anywhere. Together with him, she hoped she could finally become a complete person, like a lock finally finding a key to open it.

Ron was the key, and she was going to wait for him to realise it.

Ever for her whole life.

They had all the time in the world to find out they were compatible in a way they weren’t expecting, and to teach themselves to love, even though they still weren’t capable of it.

Hermione Granger always got what she wanted. And in that moment, she just wanted for Ron desires to align with hers.

 

_ Cet amour... mauvais comme le temps _

_“You’ll never get rid of her, if you don’t accept first that you could’ve done nothing to help her. It’s not your fault, Severus.”_

Fifteen years ago, he had pretended to believe Albus’ words.

And for a while he had thought he could actually do it.

Until that day at the end of the summer, when he had first saw Potter.

All of a sudden all those feelings remained dormant in his soul had woken up, in whirls of hatred and guilt that he wasn’t able to tame in any way.

His negligence had stolen the mother from that little ungrateful wiseacre, had stolen a smile to that world that desperately needed it.

Regret devoured him, but even slier was the lacking of someone by his side, someone pointing at the right path to take, because who used to do it had ended up not being listened to.

Severus had learnt all too soon to use indifference as a weapon, and this had lead him to life as a hermit, in which he didn’t feel comfortable with others, let alone with himself.

A few times at night, few anxiety became sharper, he fell asleep and dreamt of her. Always the same understanding face, always the same smile on her lips, always the same words, meaning to be of comfort.

But him, for some inborn reason, felt worse in the morning, when he realized those words came from his mind, burdened with torment.

In his dreams, Lily asked him to acquit himself.

To forgive himself and the thousand wrong choices he had made during the years. To forgive those scars, real or invisible, which marked his flesh, like the mark of all his mistakes. She asked him to love himself, like she would’ve loved him.

_“When you forgive yourself, Severus, you start to be accepting.”_

That sentence troubled him, like a mantra burnt on his mind.

And, once again, he didn’t listen to her.

Perhaps he would’ve deserved forgiveness after all those years, but not if it would’ve meant accepting who he was.

Severus Snape was a man soaked in hatred, alone, and destined to remain so.

Guilt only made him believe that he could’ve become something different than the grim raven wandering the school’s hallways, that place that felt really like home to him.

Severus Snape was incapable of accepting that, once absolved from his sins, he should’ve recognised that in his life there was room for a love that would’ve remained unknown.

Not anymore.

 

_ Cet amour... si violent, si fragile _

Fairy tales.

That was what rationality told her.

It kept telling her that they were all fairy tales, all thoughts horribly twisted by stories of girls meeting the one true love, that escaped, that forgot their own name.

Andromeda was not a fool. She kept inside a good amount of cynicism, to bring out at the right moment.

And in that moment, that part of her was telling her that her life would’ve been exactly what she feared: hanging on threads, as if she was nothing more than a puppet.

She had been different, as a child. Her sisters and hers had fun making their imagination fly, thinking about the future as if it was something that wasn’t actually going to come.

And yet for Andromeda that future had knocked on the door too soon, coming to look for her, to ask the payment for all her untold desires.

The name of that destiny was Ted Tonks, even though she refused to admit it to herself.

She had thought about running from what she felt for him, but she had soon noticed that, even if she were to succeed, she would’ve ended up regretting it for the rest of an existence that would’ve been lacking colour, life. Happiness.

All around her reminded her that there was hell waiting. Her parents and their sordid hopes, her sisters, the very same Black family tree... they all told the same story of following the rules and a future with no escape.

In those moments, Andromeda felt that the heaviest weight on her was the one of free will. That chance of choosing a different path, leading her to discover lands unknown.

She could’ve chosen paradise, she could choose to live it, right in that moment. In front of her there were the lights of heaven and the darkness of hell, but she didn’t need to wait the long agony of death to choose on what path write her name. Had she taken responsibility for her life, then she would’ve had in her hands her own future, and that heaven seeming so far would’ve become reachable, even when her body was still alive, young, until she would’ve had the courage to break the boundaries of convention.

There was still a place for her up there, something to make her run from the curse of being a Black.

A curse that, none of them would’ve ever understood that, could’ve been exorcised only by a love they all refused to feel.

 

_ Cet amour... nous n’avions que toi sure la terre _

_He’s not James._

Molly’s words had caused him that pain he didn’t know he could still feel.

He was Harry, not James. Something so obvious, so banal, and yet it had been almost a revelation to him.

He had put too much hope in his godson, and too many of those dreams that weren’t going to become true. The dream of still having his friend by his side, to see once more his sly smile, to still be young and bloody free.

Sirius Black felt like a poor, deluded man.

There was nothing left, anything that mattered to him had been burnt down first by Voldemort and then by Azkaban.

There was nothing for him to expect, just emptiness and rest.

He went in front of the mirror, as if he waited for his reflection to show a man different from what he felt to be. And yet he was still there, the deep bags under his eyes, his weathered face and a smile that just couldn’t arise.

It was hard to accept it, but there was nothing left in him of Padfoot. Nothing of the kid living for his friends and for the constant search for a freedom that was always denied to him. And nothing of the Marauders, that had once been all he could count on.

Death and betrayal had made left-overs of him and Remus, cold and bad-tasting, with a relative usefulness; and he couldn’t accept that, not until Molly hadn’t pointed that out, with those simple words, showing how pathetic he was being.

He had to be honest with himself, start to see things for what they truly were, and not for how we would’ve wanted them to be. He had to understand that James was dead, and that there was no elucubration, no illusion that would’ve brought him back to him.

Still, he had fun denying this reality, and kept living in an imaginary worlds where he could still be happy, pretending that the scars he bore on his soul could heal on their own, in time.

Sirius, in that mirror, saw those scars. And he saw them with the awareness of what they meant. One for each thing he had lost.

He needed to turn a new page for them to start disappearing, for them to stop spilling blood anytime his thoughts wandered on too dangerous paths.

Sirius wanted to heal them, but he lacked the courage to write the word end on that era, which had always been a safe harbour for him.

Sirius bid farewell to his scars.

But he wasn’t going to forget the pain they had caused to him.

 

_ Cet amour... tremblant de peur comme un enfant dans le noir _

He thought he could save himself.

He never did.

He had spent his life always running from someone, without a chance to stop. And, even when a bit of rest was allowed, he was haunted by nightmares, inhabited from all those he owed something to, debts gotten spilling too much blood.

When James, Sirius and him had become Animagus, he had ended up a rat. And there was no animal fitting him better.

Small, sly and bloody useless.

They had given him all the love he had never known, and wouldn’t have known again. And him, to pay them back for that incomprehensible feeling, had worn the clothes of the two-timer, vile and traitorous.

He hadn’t liked it, but his only justification was that he would’ve liked even less to bear the rage of the Dark Lord, to be tortured to the point of madness.

Peter Pettigrew hadn’t been a good friend, nor worthy of the name of person.

Peter Pettigrew had never been a person, and his happiest years had been those spent in that weird family, in which he could hid himself under the innocent and peaceful look of a rat, knowing the love that’s owned to an animal.

For he had to sadly realise that an animal was how he felt. So inadequate for life at Hogwarts, where humiliation never failed to catch him, when everyone was capable of high level spells and he could barely keep his wand steady.

Peter couldn’t be said a person, for those who surrounded him were great wizards, and he couldn’t even pretend to have a humanity he didn’t actually own. That’s why, when he had a chance, he had turned in what he truly was, which brought him no joy, but at least made him avoid the troubles of that chaotic life that everyone seemed to appreciate as the biggest gift ever.

Peter Pettigrew wasn’t rational, he just follow his animal instinct, fear first of all. The fear controlling his mind, his gazes, even his wand.

Peter Pettigrew was controlled by a will of survival that perhaps lacked sense, but that was enough to keep him afloat while everyone around him sunk.

Peter Pettigrew thought he could be safe forever, but he had ended up in trap.

Just like the rat he was.

 

_ Cet amour... guetté, parce que nous le guettions _

He felt bloody guilty. It wasn’t natural, it wasn’t the path paved for him.

But still he had taken it, because he looked right for the part. Perhaps, he missed the right heart.

George was exactly like Fred, but he can’t feel the same things he did.

Angelina wasn’t destined to be his, and he was well aware of that. Fred loved her, and George had realised that when he had first seen the look in the eyes of the twin when talking about her. It wasn’t the usual Fred Weasley anymore, his mind pervaded with the same trivialities, he was a whole different person, that George could barely recognise.

And he had stolen those smiles off Fred, certain that on his face would’ve had the same taste.

Angelina knew George wasn’t himself with her, and she probably knew the reason as well. But still, day after day, she never failed to show him who wrong and unnecessary that feeling of inadequacy was.

And George loved her for it.

What his wife ignored was that at first he had gotten closer to find in her a part of his brother that he ignored, but that he had learnt to love.

Every morning he looked at the woman’s face, the smile she never missed to show, and he wondered whether she was smiling to him or whether, unwittingly, that smile was destined to the piece of Fred she saw in him.

There was a ghost between them, the ghost of a love lost to both of them, which kept weighing in a union destined to never be born.

But George didn’t give up. He didn’t want for that ghost to disappear, but he didn’t want to renounce to Angelina.

He would’ve found his personal way to love her, of a love belonging only to him, expressing it openly so that she would’ve never missed it.

Just like that he would’ve found out that in the end life was just a dream, and that he had the skills to create it and shape it to his will.

He was aware that he couldn’t do it alone; he would’ve needed Angelina and, perhaps, also Fred to do it.

And once created that dream, working hard, he would’ve made his life the work of art everybody desired, a life of pure bliss.

A work of art in which Fred wouldn’t have been a shadow anymore, but the colours with which George and his wife would’ve painted a new, fresh, existence.

George needed the memory of his brother, not his ghost.

And he had an incredible desire to love.


End file.
